


At the Shrine of Your Lies

by leontina (Leontina)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leontina/pseuds/leontina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Author LJ Name: leontinabowie<br/>Songspiration: Take Me To Church - Hozier<br/>Prompter: susannah_wilde, ashindk, amorette<br/>Title: At the Shrine of Your Lies<br/>Prompt Number: 6<br/>Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, minor Ron/Hermione, Ginny/Dean, Rolf/Luna, Neville/Hannah<br/>Summary: Harry is struggling with his sexuality, too afraid to admit the truth over fear or rejection from his homophobic friends. All his thoughts about himself are changed when he meets Draco Malfoy again, after seeing him dancing ballet on Muggle television.<br/>Rating: NC-17<br/>Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.<br/>Warning(s): Angst, homophobia, internalised homophobia, one reference to past torture (not concerning Harry or Draco)<br/>Epilogue compliant? Nope<br/>Word Count: 15,000<br/>Author's Notes: Most of the background characters in this story display some form of homophobia. This is not intended as character bashing, but was needed in regards to the storyline and the prompt. These views belong to the characters only, and I do not share them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Shrine of Your Lies

 

The sound of their laughter drowned out the rest of the restaurant.

  
Ginny had contagious laughter and a beautiful smile. Harry wanted to reach out and hold her hand, but he knew that if he did then he wouldn’t feel anything.  
  
It was easier to pretend when he wasn’t confronted with the truth.  
  
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Ginny said, placing her napkin on the table as she stood.  
  
Harry took the time he had alone to study the other diners. Most of them were couples, both elderly and young. They were cheerful men and women, holding hands and laughing, and looking completely in awe at one another.  
  
Harry wondered why he didn’t feel that way towards Ginny.  
  
He loved her, of course he did, but his love for her was easily comparable with the love he felt for Ron and Hermione. In many ways, Ginny was the perfect person to be his best friend, but she was supposed to be more than a friend - she was his  _girlfriend_.  
  
Harry knew that Ginny wasn’t happy. They had been together almost two years but rarely held hands or kissed, and Harry was continuously pushing Ginny to wait before they slept together.  
  
He was supposed to want to hold Ginny all the time, run his hands over her soft body, and feel what it was like inside her. Ron and Neville were both enthralled with their respective women, but Harry couldn’t seem to muster up the same feelings.  
  
Instead he woke up hard from dreams of rock-hard abs and thick cocks. On the odd occasion when he and Ginny did kiss, Harry would crave the rough burn of stubble rubbing against his. Ginny was too small, too soft, too  _womanly_.  
  
It was wrong, Harry knew, and he wouldn’t allow himself to be  _gay_. He had heard the names that everyone called them: ponces, faggots,  _freaks_.  
  
Ron and Neville enjoyed talking about women, but they also enjoyed talking about the gay couple that worked in the Auror department. They freely spoke of their disgust and horror towards them, and Harry wouldn’t allow his friends to see  _him_  as a freak. Harry’s aunt and uncle had persistently called him a freak, and they hadn’t loved him because of it. If Harry was a freak to his friends, then he would lose their love, too, and Harry couldn’t lose anyone else.  
  
“I’m back.” Ginny’s voice broke Harry out of his reverie, and he noticed that every hint of a smile had left Ginny’s face.  
  
“Is everything alright, Ginny?” he asked, watching in concern as she slid back into the chair opposite him.  
  
Ginny gave him a sad smile.  
  
“You know I love you, don’t you Harry?” she said, clasping her hands on the table in front of her.  
  
“Yeah, but-” Harry started to say, but Ginny cut him off mid-sentence.  
  
“But I don’t think you’re in love with me,” she finished, not taking her eyes off Harry. Ginny’s fierceness and bravery had always been something that Harry admired about her.  
  
“Of course I love you,” Harry started to protest, but Ginny interrupted him once more.  
  
“I don’t doubt that you love me, Harry,” she murmured, squeezing her fingers so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “But you’re not  _in_  love with me. We never kiss, or touch, and when we do you always pull away. I’m not going to pretend that it doesn’t hurt, Harry, because it does, but I’m not angry at you, either.”  
  
Harry’s mouth was dry, and when he picked up his glass of water he found that his fingers were trembling. Harry wasn’t stupid - he knew what a break up looked like - and now he was being confronted with the truth which he despised.  
  
“Ginny, it’s nothing you’ve done; there’s nothing wrong with you,” Harry promised, though Ginny didn’t look convinced. What was he supposed to say, though? That he was desperately trying to suppress his attraction to men but being physical with Ginny made that suppression harder? “I want to be with you; I like spending time with you, and you make me happy. I just need a bit of time.”  
  
“I’ve given you time, Harry, that’s the thing.” Ginny’s voice was strained, but her eyes were still dry. “I think you love the  _idea_  of me more than you actually love  _me_ , and I don’t think I can wait for you anymore. I’ll always be here for you as a friend, if you want me to be, but I need to move on.”  
  
Should he fight? Should he accept? Harry had no idea what to say or do, never having been in this situation before. He felt somewhat distressed, anxiety coming from nowhere, but he also felt a strange sense of relief.  
  
Maybe Ginny was just the wrong girl for him. Maybe he’d meet another girl; one who’d drive all thoughts of men from his mind and let him be  _normal_.  
  
“I don’t want to lose your friendship, Ginny,” Harry said after realising that Ginny was biting her nails nervously while she awaited his reaction. “I’m sorry I wasn’t good to you.”  
  
“You weren’t good, but you weren’t bad, either,” Ginny countered. “We’re just wrong for each other, I think.” She reached under the table for her bag and pulled out several coins. They hit the table with a thunk that sounded far too loud in Harry’s head. “Can you give me some space for a while, Harry? I need time to get my head straight.”  
  
Ironic use of words, Harry thought, and even without intention Ginny had a wicked sense of humour. It was too bad that Harry hadn’t learnt to love her properly.  
  
***  
“Sorry we’re late,” Ginny said with an apologetic smile as she and Dean pulled chairs up to the table in the Leaky Cauldron.  
  
Ginny and Dean had begun dating only a couple of months after she broke up with Harry, and they were now engaged after almost four years.  
  
Harry tried to be happy for them, he really did, but the fact remained that all of his friends were happy in their lives; settled in relationships and successful at work. Harry was none of the above.  
  
He had quit the Aurors after a month of too much pressure, and had since worked in Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes from time to time when he got bored. He was rich enough to get away with doing nothing, but at the same time he wished he was  _inspired_  to do something more.  
  
And Harry’s dating life remained an absolute disaster. He had started several relationships with women, only to be shut out in the early stages when he refused most types of physical affection.  
  
After realising that that wasn’t working, and fantasies of men were still lingering in his mind, Harry had made attempts at casual relationships and one-night-stands. He could manage a woman on her knees sucking him off - because they could be anyone then - but beyond that he was met with failure after failure.  
  
“Cheer up, mate,” Ron said loudly when he spotted Harry’s glum expression, and clapped him on the back so hard that Harry lurched forwards. Ron had evidently had too much to drink already, and he swayed unsteadily as he clambered to his feet, knocking the table in the process. “You two want anything?” This was directed at Ginny and Dean.  
  
“A pint’ll do for me,” Dean grinned, turning to Ginny with an enamored expression which turned Harry’s stomach. “You?”  
  
“Just a water, please,” Ginny added, and when everyone looked at her in shock she hastily added, “our manager’s got us on a strict no-drinks-but-water regime.”  
  
As Ron stumbled off to get the drinks, joined by an exasperated and supervising Hermione, Luna and Rolf stood, too. Harry loved Luna and her boyfriend dearly; Luna had met Rolf in the Amazon rainforest where they were both trying to discover the same magical breed of snake, and had come home smitten. They certainly drew attention to themselves; there was Luna with her brightly coloured, mismatched clothes, and platinum dyed hair which ran all the way down her back and tied with scraps of colourful ribbon; and then there was Rolf, who was clad in all black with leather straps and chains, had metal rings in his lip, nose, eyebrows, and ears, and wore a bandana over his dreadlocks. They walked hand-in-hand to the bathroom together, no doubt to have a quickie.  
  
Neville and Hannah were a more conventional couple; modestly dressed and holding hands all the while. Harry knew that it wouldn’t be long before they made pink-cheeked, blonde-haired babies and lived in a house with a white picket fence. Harry knew that he should be thrilled for Neville and Hannah finding happiness, but they just left him feeling bitter. At least Luna and Rolf’s unconventionality made Harry feel slightly better about himself, but they, too, were totally in love. If Harry hadn’t seen it coming years ago, Harry would have probably been bitter about Ron and Hermione’s marriage, too.  
  
“Hey, Harry!” Ron hissed as he returned to the table with the drinks hovering in front of him. They were lowered to the table and sloshed only slightly. “There’s a cute chick at the bar - blonde with really big tits-oww!”  
  
“Don’t be a sexist pig,” Hermione snapped, but she too turned to Harry with an encouraging smile. “She does seem interested in you, though; she was asking us about you. Maybe you should go and talk to her.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry mumbled, eyeing the bar suspiciously over his pint glass. The woman in question was staring at him, batting her eyelashes and pursing her lips. “She’s probably only interested because of my scar.”  
  
“You won’t know that unless you talk to her,” Ginny pointed out. She had followed his failure of a love life closely, and seemed to feel guilty for setting it off, because she was constantly trying to set him up with someone.  
  
Harry sighed and rolled his eyes but got up and went over to the bar anyway. The woman beamed at him as he approached, jutting her chest forwards.  
  
Harry could do this. She was, admittedly, conventionally attractive, but Harry couldn’t feel his heart racing or his cock stirring; he just felt nauseous.  
  
“Hi,” he greeted lousily, but the woman didn’t seem to mind.  
  
“I’m Simone,” she replied, crossing one leg over the other which caused her skirt to hitch up. “Want to buy me a drink?”  
  
“Sure,” Harry shrugged, because that was what he was supposed to do, wasn’t it?  
  
Simone made a show of ordering a cocktail which came with a cherry, specifically so she could tie the cherry stem in a knot using her tongue.  
  
Suddenly Simone’s demeanour changed, and an ugly scowl crossed her face. “Eurgh, look at those fags,” she snarled, and Harry’s blood ran cold as he twisted around to see two - very uncaring - men holding hands. “I don’t care what they do in the bedroom, but it’s sickening to see them flaunt their  _lifestyle_  in public. What’s the matter, baby?”  
  
Harry had jumped to his feet, the closeness of the bar suddenly feeling far too tight and closed in. “Sorry, I need to… sorry.”  
  
He Disapparated without another word, not even stopping to say goodbye to his friends.  
  
Those two men had been so happy looking, and they hadn’t given a damn about the stares and the nasty whispers. Harry didn’t have a problem with gay people, but he couldn’t be gay himself. It was spineless and weak, and maybe he was lying to himself, but Harry wasn’t going to drive away the people that loved him. He was sure that if he pushed that part of him down and locked it deep away, he would be able to contain it long enough to find a woman to marry and start a family with, and everybody would be none the wiser.  
  
Once Harry got home he turned on the Muggle television and put in a porn video he had picked up several months ago. He probably knew it word-for-word by now, and it always played out the same way.  
  
Harry would fast-forward the part where the man banged on the sink with a spanner as he pretended to be a plumber, and the woman discovered she had no money with which to pay him. Harry would then press play and unzip his jeans as the woman sunk to her knees to suck the man’s cock. But no matter how hard he focused, he couldn’t get hard to the video. Not even when the woman was bent over the kitchen counter and spanked, and not when the camera zoomed in between the woman’s legs.  
  
The failed attempt at wanking to porn then split off into one of two ways. Either Harry would turn it off and sit staring into space for a long while, or he would start to look at the man’s hard abs and thick thighs, and Harry would end up wanking as he stared at the thick cock. Then guilt would wash over him, and he would stare into space for a long while.  
  
Tonight seemed to be the latter option, and Harry worked his hand furiously over his cock as he imagined that  _he_  was the one being fucked by the plumber. The sooner it was over the better, and then Harry could go back to hating himself.  
  
He came with a cry, and grabbed his wand with a shaking hand to clean up the mess. Not bothering to turn off the telly, Harry curled into a ball on the sofa and soon fell asleep.  
  
When he awoke several hours later, he was stiff and sore, and had a slight headache which had no doubt been caused by the alcohol the night before.  
  
The television was still on, but at some point during the night Harry had pressed onto the remote, because instead of the porn video a reality channel was on.  
  
Feeling too lazy to move, Harry watched the programme with half his attention on it. It consisted of people dancing in various styles to different songs.  
  
Harry’s interest was really piqued when a tattooed blond walked onto the stage. For a moment it looked like Draco Malfoy, but what would Malfoy be doing on a Muggle show, dancing ballet?  
  
The dancer’s right arm was covered in a tattoo sleeve, though Harry couldn’t quite make out the design. His bare chest had a light dusting of pale hair, and across the top was a black dragon tattoo; the tail of which extended onto the man’s left arm. And there, on his left forearm, was the Dark Mark. It wasn’t pale red like the rest of the faded ones, but vivid black like Malfoy had gone over it in ink.  
  
Draco Malfoy was dancing ballet on a Muggle television show.  
  
Harry should have contacted Ron on the Floo to call him round so that they could make fun of Malfoy together, but Harry was too entranced. There was nothing to make fun of - Malfoy looked and danced like a god. His movements were graceful but powerful, elegant and poised.  
  
The worst part was, Harry was quickly growing hard, and he felt empty when Malfoy left the stage.  
  
***  
Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy for several years, and even a million miles away in the Muggle world he was still infiltrating Harry’s life and driving him insane.  
  
Harry hadn’t been able to get the damn image of Malfoy dancing out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. It woke him up at night, and in his half-asleep state he would work his cock to fantasies of fucking Malfoy and feeling Malfoy’s firm, muscular legs wrapped around his waist, or being pinned down and fucked by Malfoy with the same power that he put into his dancing.  
  
When the light of day struck, and Harry’s mind was alert, he realised how wrong his nightly activities were.  
  
Harry had worked hard to push down that side of himself, but thoughts of Malfoy kept bringing it back to the surface. It was so very like Malfoy to want to make Harry some kind of freak.  
  
Logically, Harry knew that Malfoy had probably never intended for Harry to watch him dancing, and thus hadn’t planned to drive Harry insane, but that didn’t change the fact that Harry  _had_  seen it.  
  
Harry admittedly didn’t have a clue about ballet, but he was sure it was supposed to be for prettily dressed women; pretty women who danced with grace and poise. Surely it wasn’t for shirtless men with toned muscles and skin-tight leggings, who danced with intense power and control?  
  
Harry remembered when a ballet production had come to his Muggle primary school one evening. Harry would have never been allowed to go anyway, but he distinctly remembered Uncle Vernon saying to Aunt Petunia that “Dudley isn’t going. I don’t want him turning into some kind of queer.”  
  
Maybe Harry’s uncle had been right for once in his life, and Malfoy doing ballet was making Harry queer. Or maybe Harry was just really fucked up and needed to sort his life out.  
  
Yes, the second option was the most plausible, because Harry’s uncle was many things, but being right was not one of them.  
  
Figuring he needed to get Malfoy out of his system, Harry went to his local library and logged on to one of the computers. Hermione had insisted he learn how to use one, and though he could perform basic functions, he was very slow at it.  
  
Not expecting much, but deciding to give it a go anyway, Harry entered the name  _Draco Malfoy_  into a search engine. The very first result answered Harry’s question.  
  
It probably made sense for Malfoy to keep his name, Harry mused as he clicked on the website offered. If Malfoy was hiding in the Muggle world, any wizards or witches looking for him wouldn’t think or know how to use Muggle searching methods.  
  
The website stated that Malfoy was a member of the  _Royal Ballet_ , and a bit of navigation told him that Malfoy would be dancing at a performance in a couple of days time.  
  
Harry wrote down the phone number offered - he was better with phones than computers - so that he could book a ticket for the performance. Harry had come to the conclusion that seeing Malfoy dancing in person might be enough to purge his system of any homosexual thoughts.  
  
And though he tried to deny it, he couldn’t help but be just a little bit curious about seeing Malfoy in person after all these years.  
  
***  
All of Harry’s previous misconceptions about ballet were - thankfully - shattered.  
  
He had had it in his head that ballet was for pretty women who moved around in a very ladylike, gentle way. But while the women were pretty, the dancing was anything but gentle. It was graceful, yes, but it was clear to see that the movements and poses required immense skill and power. It took control to stay poised while moving so efficiently, and Harry had respect for that. The male dancers also had the same skill as the women, but none of them were Malfoy.  
  
When Malfoy finally came onto the stage, Harry instinctively raised his hands to clap until he realised that the rest of the audience were silently focused on the stage.  
  
As Harry had suspected, Malfoy was better in person. His muscular thighs flexed with each movement, and he danced cleanly and effortlessly. What made Malfoy stand out from the other dancers, Harry thought, was that Malfoy looked  _free_. While he was sure the other dancers may have had issues in their lives, Harry didn’t know them; he had seen Malfoy at his worse, but now he looked like that period of his life was a world away.  
  
Harry couldn’t help but envy him. He couldn’t feel bitter, though, not like he did with his friends. If Malfoy was in the Muggle world, then something had obviously gone wrong for him in the magical world, meaning his life was probably not wonderful. But Malfoy had found happiness in dancing, and Harry wished he could find something that gave him that light; flying wasn’t the same with everyone else too busy to play Quidditch with him.  
  
For the most part, Harry thoroughly enjoyed the ballet performance. The one negative was that seeing Malfoy hadn’t solved Harry’s problem; in fact, it had probably made it worse. He needed to see Malfoy  _again_.  
  
There had been a point during the performance where Harry had sworn that Malfoy’s eyes had met his, but Harry brushed it off because there was no way that Malfoy could have singled out his face in a swarm of people. Or so Harry thought until he was approached by a tall, bulky man dressed in black and with a tribal star tattooed around his left eye.  
  
“Mr Malfoy would like to have a word with you,” the man said gruffly, folding his arms across his chest. He looked like a much more intimidating Crabbe or Goyle, and Harry felt dwarfed by his large frame.  
  
“I have somewhere to be, sorry,” Harry lied; he had a feeling that seeing Malfoy up close wasn’t going to help his situation in the slightest, and he would rather avoid that.  
  
Unfortunately, the large man saw right through Harry. “Do you?” the man sneered, his lip curling in a way which reminded Harry of Malfoy. “Don’t look so nervous, mate; Mr Malfoy just wants to chat. He says the two of you went to school together.”  
  
“Er, yeah, we did,” Harry nodded as he reluctantly followed the man. He had considered making a run for it, but Malfoy’s cronie would no doubt be able to grab him and carry him over his shoulder if he tried anything. “How long have you been working for Malfoy?”  
  
“You don’t have to make conversation with me, you know,” the man muttered, and Harry promptly hung his head until the man chuckled. “It’s been about three years now; he’s grown on me since then.”  
  
They stopped in front of a door which had a piece of paper pinned to it reading Malfoy’s name. Harry’s escort rapped three times on the door, and Malfoy answered it almost immediately.  
  
Malfoy was shirtless again, and Harry made a point of not looking at his chest, or the defined muscles of his arms.  
  
“Thank you, Deon,” Malfoy said, and gestured for Harry to follow him into the room before heading for his dressing table.  
  
Deon gave Harry a little push, and shut the door behind him, sealing Harry’s fate.  
  
“Would you care for a drink?” Malfoy asked casually, crouching down to open the door of the mini-fridge.  
  
“No, thank you,” Harry answered, using the distraction of the dressing room to keep him from looking at Malfoy. It was rather plain, with cream walls and no furniture aside from basic wooden chairs with red cushioning.  
  
“Alright,” Malfoy murmured, grabbing a bottle of water and downing half of it in one go. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, put the bottle on the dressing table, and was upon Harry in an instant, his wand pressed against Harry’s neck. “What the hell are you doing here, Potter? Who sent you? Did my mother put you up to this?”  
  
“What? No! Nobody sent me,” Harry said quickly, holding his hands defensively in the air. He knew that he would be able to withdraw his wand and hex Malfoy before Malfoy even had a chance to blink, but Harry wasn’t here to fight. “I just came to watch the ballet; I didn’t even know you were a dancer.”  
  
“Hmm, likely story,” Malfoy scoffed, although the pressure of his wand on Harry’s neck softened. “What business does a wizard have watching a Muggle ballet?”  
  
“What business does a wizard have dancing in a Muggle ballet?” Harry retorted.  
  
“That’s none of your business,” Malfoy snapped.  
  
Harry grinned; he couldn’t help himself. Fighting with Malfoy made Harry feel  _alive_ , like it brought him back to happier times when things were simpler.  
  
To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy smiled for a brief moment and dropped his wand, through he still kept it trained on Harry.  
  
“I’ll admit,” Harry said, deciding to be as honest as he dared, “that I did know you were going to be here. I saw you on the telly the other night, and I could hardly believe it was you. I’m not here to make fun of you or whatever - Ron would be here with me if I was.”  
  
Malfoy eyed him skeptically, and Harry dropped his own gaze guiltily. He immediately wished he hadn’t, because his attention was drawn to Malfoy’s slender but powerful shoulders, and then to Malfoy’s tattoo sleeve.  
  
Up close Harry could make out every detail; white flowers that bunched around an obscured skull, and dropped down into an obscured snake. It was beautiful, Harry thought; there weren’t many in the Wizarding world who had tattoos.  
  
Evidently, Malfoy had decided that Harry had been telling the truth - though thankfully he didn’t question Harry’s reason why - because he dropped his wand’s aim away from Harry.  
  
“It’s typical!” Malfoy muttered, perching on the edge of his dressing table and taking another swig of water. “Of all the wizards to turn up and disturb my life, it had to be you, Potter.”  
  
“I could say the same about you,” Harry shot back bitterly, remembering only afterwards that Malfoy hadn’t  _actually_  set out to drive Harry insane with gay thoughts.  
  
“What  _are_  you on about?” Malfoy queried, bewildered.  
  
Harry shrugged. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect you to be here like this. What happened with you, anyway? Why are you hiding in the Muggle world?”  
  
Malfoy sighed. “You’re a nosy git; do you know that, Potter?” Malfoy pushed off the table and rose to his full height again. “I’ll tell you what you want to know if you tell me what I want to know - but you’re buying dinner.”  
  
Harry’s heart race picked up, beating so loudly in his chest that Harry was surprised that Malfoy couldn’t hear it. “D-dinner?” he spluttered, “but-”  
  
“You’re the first member of the Wizarding world I’ve seen for years,” Malfoy admitted darkly, Summoning a long, faux-fur coat and wrapping it around himself. Just a hint of Draco’s pale chest was left on show, and Harry tried not to notice it. “I’ve missed out on a lot, and I suppose you’ll do for keeping me up-to-date. Are you coming?”  
  
Harry should have said no. He should have said that going out with Malfoy was a very bad, undoubtedly stupid thing to do. Harry should have turned around and gone home to wank away the gay thoughts and get on with his life; going with Malfoy for dinner was just going to drag Harry in deeper.  
  
But Harry was, at heart, reckless, impulsive, and more than a little bit curious. So it was only natural that he agreed.  
  
***  
Harry expected that Malfoy would bring him to an expensive restaurant, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to be shocked at the prices.  
  
“ _That_  much for a starter?” he exclaimed loudly as he studied the menu, shifting uncomfortably when an elderly man gave him a dirty look. He was already on edge because he was aware that he and Malfoy might be mistaken for a couple, but apart from a few looks and stares, nobody had said anything to them.  
  
“Lucky for you that I don’t eat dessert,” Malfoy said, beckoning a waiter over. “We’ll both have the stuffed sea bass.”  
  
The waiter sped away before Harry could argue.  
  
He looked at Malfoy through narrowed eyes. “I don’t like fish,” he whined, but Malfoy didn’t seem in the mood to pity him.  
  
“So how’s the Ministry running these days?” Malfoy asked as he poured both of them a glass of water.  
  
Harry spoke for a long while about the Wizarding world while they waited for their food; politics, the development of Diagon Alley, the latest hit band. It was all very ordinary stuff, but Malfoy seemed fascinated, and Harry was shocked at just how little contact Malfoy had had with the world of magic.  
  
When their food finally arrived, Harry took the opportunity to turn the conversation to Malfoy.  
  
“I always thought dancers had to eat salad,” Harry said conversationally, but regretted his words the moment he saw Malfoy’s glare.  
  
“Eating salad for three meals a day is hardly nutritious, is it?” Malfoy replied scathingly, cutting his fish with more force than necessary. “A  _healthy_ , balanced diet is the most important thing. I need to be able to keep up my energy.”  
  
Harry took that as his cue.  
  
“So you’re pretty into your dancing? How long have you been doing it?” he asked, hoping that he didn’t sound too much like an interrogator.  
  
Thankfully, Malfoy seemed happy to talk about himself.  
  
“Since I was a child. Ballet is the Black family hobby, apparently; anyone born into the family takes lessons,” Malfoy said, and Harry couldn’t help but smile at the image of an angry Sirius being forced to dance ballet for his psychotic mother. “I took up official training with the Royal Ballet School when I left home - I had to lie about my age, of course, because I was slightly too old - and stayed on as a performer after graduation.”  
  
“What made you go for that in the first place?” Harry enquired, hoping that he wasn’t pushing Malfoy too far. The last thing he needed was for Malfoy to get offended and storm off, because then Harry would be indeterminately lost in a Malfoy-whirlwind.  
  
“Because, Potter,” Malfoy said, pulling his lips into a slow smile. “I happen to be very gay, and my parents did not approve.”  
  
Harry, unfortunately, had chosen to take a drink at that precise moment, and proceeded to choke as he swallowed too fast.  
  
“You’re gay?” he spluttered, his blood running cold at the words.  
  
If Malfoy was gay, then there was a slim chance - a very slim chance, in a universe where they didn’t hate each other - that Harry’s fantasies could become a possibility.  
  
Harry could imagine his friend’s reactions if they knew not only was he fantasising about men, his fantasies involved Malfoy. It was like a double-whammy of freakishness.  
  
“Very gay,” Malfoy said again. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”  
  
Though Malfoy’s question was mocking, Harry could detect a tone of fear in the words.  
  
“No, no,  _you_  don’t make me uncomfortable,” Harry emphasised, waving his hands as he spoke. “I don’t have a problem with you being gay, really.” And it was the truth. Malfoy being gay was a shock, yes, but it didn’t bother Harry. He didn’t have anything against gay people; he just didn’t want to be gay himself.  
  
“So  _I_  don’t make you uncomfortable?” Malfoy murmured, his steel grey eyes flashing contemplatively. “Yet you’re clearly uncomfortable about  _something_.”  
  
“It’s not you, I promise,” Harry said quickly, and Malfoy laughed.  
  
“I trust you on that; you’re too obvious when you’re lying,” Malfoy commented, running a finger absently over the rim of his glass. “Are  _you_  gay, Potter?”  
  
All Harry had to do was so no. No. It was a single word, one-syllabled, and easy enough to say. It was the same in several languages; there was absolutely no hardship in the word.  
  
“Me? Gay? Where would you get that idea from? I’m not gay,” Harry said instead, and he inwardly winced at the higher pitch his tone had taken. “I mean maybe there’s a little bit of… _something_ , but I’m totally straight.”  
  
“You sound it,” Malfoy said dryly, raising a brow. “I tried to pretend I was straight once; it didn’t work out and I just ended up causing myself a lot of pain. The best thing I did was getting away from people who judged me for it.”  
  
Harry couldn’t imagine turning away from Ron and Hermione, and all the rest of his friends. He had put them all through hell over the years, and the least he could do was be a respectable member of the community for them. Running away to be gay didn’t really fit into the scheme of things.  
  
“I couldn’t leave my friends,” Harry murmured, clapping a hand over his mouth after he said it. He realised a moment later that his words could have been perceived as metaphorical, but the hand-over-the-mouth had really given his game away.  
  
“I’m not going to judge you, Potter; there’s enough discrimination going on for non-straights as there is,” Malfoy said, and Harry was surprised at how sincere he sounded.  
  
“So, er, dancing makes you happy? You seem it on stage,” Harry asked, desperate to change the topic. For a brief second it looked like there was sadness in Malfoy’s eyes, but then it was gone and Harry was sure that he had imagined it.  
  
“Dancing makes me feel free,” Draco answered, spreading his arms out at his sides. “It’s better than flying.”  
  
Harry wanted to feel free. He wanted to feel happy, and find a purpose in life. And making spending time with a gay man could help Harry sort out his sexuality - hopefully.  
  
“I want you to teach me,” Harry said firmly, looking directly at Malfoy for more than five seconds the first time that night.  
  
The right side corner of Malfoy’s lips turned upwards. “Alright, Potter; I’ll see what you’ve got.”  
  
***  
“Where were you Friday night, Harry? I tried calling you on the Floo but you didn’t answer,” Hermione asked, looking at him thoughtfully, and with just a hint of suspicion in her eyes.  
  
Every Sunday, the Weasleys and their partners and close friends would go to the Burrow for a Sunday Roast. The kitchen was cramped and crowded, but the atmosphere was always lively and cheerful, and the food was, of course, delicious.  
  
“I went to a show,” Harry answered, making a display of cutting his lamb. “A Muggle one; I wanted to try something new.”  
  
“Oh?” Harry should have trusted Hermione to dig. “What kind of show?”  
  
The attention of everyone at the table was on him, and Harry’s mind suddenly went blank of any other kind of show he could have gone to see.  
  
“A ballet,” he muttered quietly, hoping that everyone would leave it be.  
  
Naturally, they didn’t.  
  
“A ballet? As in girls spinning around in tutus?” Ron exclaimed through a mouthful of food. He swallowed heavily after a dirty look from his mother and Hermione, and added, “What did you go there for?”  
  
“Just wanted to check it out,” Harry shrugged. “Besides, the women do more than spin around, and men do it too. They’re really quite talented-”  
  
His words were drowned out by a grinning George.  
  
“Are the men in tutus, too?” George joked, getting laughter from almost everyone at the table. “Bunch of ponces, the lot of them, I’ll bet.”  
  
“Seriously, why did you go to a ballet?” Ron asked again, shuddering as though the very thought of it repulsed him.  
  
“Ballet is a very elegant dance,” Fleur argued loftily from beside Bill. “There is nothing wrong with adding a bit of culture into your life; Circe knows you could do with it.”  
  
“Hey, Bill; I think your wife’s calling us uncultured,” George commented, lightly shoving his older brother in the shoulder.  
  
“You  _are_  uncultured,” Bill retorted light-heartedly, and fortunately the topic of conversation moved away from Harry and onto the Weasley siblings.  
  
Harry had hoped that everyone had forgotten about him, until Ginny pulled him aside at the end of the meal to talk to him privately.  
  
“You’re a broom man, Harry,” Ginny said, and Harry’s heart instantly started racing.  
  
“What?” he gasped, looking around and hoping nobody had heard her. “What are you implying? I’m not-”  
  
He stopped as Ginny started to laugh.  
  
“Oh, Harry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Ginny grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “I know you’re not a  _queer_. What I  _meant_  was you’re a Quidditch sort of guy. I know they tell us to try new things, but I think ballet is a little bit out of your comfort zone.”  
  
Harry, who was still too unnerved by Ginny’s choice of words, chose not to argue with her. For some reason, her suggestion that he wasn’t the  _right_  sort of person to go to a ballet annoyed him.  
  
“What do you want, Ginny?” he asked, his words coming out sharper than intended.  
  
Ginny didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she wrung her hands together and refused to meet his eyes for a moment. However when she brought her gaze back up, Harry had never seen her look happier.  
  
“I wanted to tell you first, considering our history, but… I’m pregnant!” Ginny beamed. “I’m twelve weeks today.”  
  
“Wow, uh; congratulations, Ginny,” Harry said automatically, leaning in to hug Ginny and ignoring the way his stomach clenched.  
  
It wasn’t that he was  _jealous_  of her, but more that he  _envied_  her. Ginny looked happy because she  _was_  happy; she had a job she loved, a fiancé she adored, and now had a baby on the way which would give her a new family.  
  
How would Harry ever have his own family if he was gay? He wouldn’t just be throwing away his current family - he’d be losing the chance to have one in the future.  
  
But somehow, for the first time in his life, Harry wondered if that even mattered anymore.  
  
***  
Harry’s arms were shaking as he pressed down into yet enough press-up.  
  
Malfoy was stood at the side, wearing those pale, skin-tight leggings that he seemed so fond of.  
  
“Get to twenty, Potter, then you can stop,” Malfoy said firmly, pressing his hand to his hip. “Five to go.”  
  
“What do press-ups have to do with ballet, anyway?” Harry asked through gritted teeth. Despite the uncomfort, he was relishing in the pain in his core; it made him feel  _alive_.  
  
“You need to have precision and strength to hold poses and keep on going,” Malfoy answered in a very matter-of-fact tone. “Stamina is only part of the equation. Two more, Potter.”  
  
Harry finished the final two without another word, and collapsed to the floor gratefully afterwards.  
  
“Don’t think you’re stopping now, Potter; go and get the portable barre out from the store-cupboard,” Malfoy ordered, rolling his eyes when Harry looked blankly back at him. “The handrail,” Malfoy expanded with an irritated sigh.  
  
“Sorry for not knowing all of my ballet terms already,” Harry muttered, grinning when Malfoy shot him the finger.  
  
Harry hurried to the store-cupboard and spotted the barre, and with slight difficulty he pulled the heavy rail to the middle of the room.  
  
“At the school’s studio we have a barre attached to the wall,” Malfoy said conversationally as he watched Harry without any offer to help. “However as I’m not officially allowed to teach you, we’ll have to make do with this.”  
  
For somebody who wasn’t officially allowed to teach, Malfoy seemed very happy to do so. Perhaps it was because it allowed him to show off his superior knowledge, or maybe he just liked bossing Harry around; either way, it was much nicer to see Malfoy like this than the scared teenager he had been during the war.  
  
“What exercise do you currently do, Potter?” Malfoy asked suddenly, catching Harry off-guard. “You look toned, whatever you’re doing.”  
  
Harry couldn’t help himself from flushing at the thought of Malfoy noticing his body, but he shook his head to try and prompt those thoughts to leave his body.  
  
“I do a lot of running,” Harry answered, pressing his hands against his flat stomach. He went out for a run every morning and night, mainly because he got terribly bored at home, but also because keeping fit gave his mind something to focus on.  
  
Malfoy nodded in approval, and his eyes ran the length of Harry’s body.  
  
“That’s good,” Malfoy murmured, turning away from Harry sharply as though looking at him was too much. “I think the areas you’ll need to pay most attention to are toning and strength. We’ll start off doing basic moves on the barre, and we’ll go from there.”  
  
Malfoy shooed Harry to the barre while he went to set up a CD player. Harry expected classical music to come blaring out, but instead a Muggle rock song started playing.  
  
“Interesting music choice,” Harry commented with a smile, and for a moment it looked like Malfoy was trying to hold his own back.  
  
“To the barre,” Malfoy said instead, moving over to stand beside Harry. “We’ll start with demi-pliés; turn your feet out, heels together - first position, remember that.”  
  
Malfoy demonstrated the move, which consisted of Malfoy bending his knees while keeping his upper body straight and rigid. Malfoy made the move look effortless, but Harry soon learned it wasn’t as easy as it looked.  
  
“Keep your heels down, Potter, and your back straight,” Malfoy snapped, “and try and get down lower if you can.”  
  
Harry almost jumped out of his skin and very nearly head-butted Malfoy in the chin when he felt Malfoy’s hands on his shoulders. Malfoy’s hands were strong and sturdy, and felt warm on his body. His body tensed as he realised that a simple touch from Malfoy had got more of a reaction out of him than any time with Ginny did.  
  
He was wondering whether to run from the studio and find an uninhabited island to live on, when Malfoy chuckled.  
  
“I’m not going to molest you, Potter, unless you ask me to,” Malfoy drawled lightly, “so you can relax. I’m just trying to correct your posture.”  
  
“I wasn’t…” Harry started, but he didn’t quite know how to finish that sentence. How was he meant to explain that he wasn’t bothered by Malfoy’s touch, but by the reactions his touch had caused in Harry’s body?  
  
“Don’t worry, Potter; I’ve been where you are,” Malfoy muttered, as his hands shifted Harry’s back slightly. “You need to keep your posture centred. If you’re serious about doing this then I recommend that you come to my yoga class on a Wednesday night.”  
  
“You teach yoga?” Harry’s eyes widened as he tried determinedly not to think about Malfoy bending over in all sorts of positions.  
  
Malfoy’s hands released Harry, and Harry found himself missing the contact. He tried to tell himself that it was simply because he hadn’t had any real physical contact for years so he was clinging on to the first sign of it, but Harry wasn’t so sure that anyone else might have given him the same reaction that Malfoy had.  
  
“I do, Potter; that’s why I invited you to my class,” Malfoy responded. “Go into second position - keep your feet turned out but separate your heels - and give me four more demi-pilés.”  
  
“Are you this pushy with all of your students?” Harry retorted as Malfoy came round the other side of the barre to face him, and Harry felt his cheeks flush when Malfoy gave him a wide smile. It wasn’t a friendly smile, but it looked good on Malfoy.  
  
“Just you, Potter,” Malfoy grinned, and wasn’t there truth in those words?  
  
Malfoy and Harry had always seemed to find a way to get the attention of the other - Malfoy especially - like there was something more between them than just being schoolyard rivals.  
  
There was a moment where Harry was lost in the steely grey storm that was Malfoy’s eyes, but he hastily pulled his gaze away.  
  
“Onto relevé, Potter,” Malfoy said, with what sounded like disappointment in his voice; Harry was sure he was imagining it. “Start in first position and rise slowly onto your toes; watch how I do it.”  
  
***  
When Harry had asked Draco - for it  _was_  Draco now - to teach him how to do ballet, Harry had expected something easy and fun.  
  
But while it was fun - and Harry was enjoying it - it wasn’t exactly what Harry would call easy. As well as going to Draco’s yoga class, Harry was in the ballet studio with Draco five times a week, and Draco was pushing Harry hard.  
  
Draco was an effective but stern teacher. He was constantly on to Harry about his posture and positioning, and made sure that Harry perfected each move before they moved on to another.  
  
As well as the dancing, Draco was also pushing Harry to learn all the French terms; he had a habit of shouting random movements or poses and expected Harry to understand.  
  
But while Harry was enjoying the exhilarating feeling he got from dancing, and actually  _doing_  something with his life, he felt like he was getting nowhere.  
  
“I’m going to start you learning the pas de chat, today,” Draco said, stepping back so he could demonstrate the move.  
  
It consisted of Draco bending his knees and jumping, bringing his foot to the opposite leg and then repeating it in the other side. As per usual, Draco did the move very gracefully and elegantly, landing softly every time.  
  
“We’ll start slowly,” Draco continued, “take one movement at a time.”  
  
And there was the thing that bothered Harry the most.  
  
“You did it so easily,” Harry pointed out, folding his arms across his chest. “I feel like I’m getting nowhere.”  
  
Draco fixed him with an incredulous look.  
  
“You’ve been doing ballet for three weeks,” Draco stated plainly. “I’ve been doing it for nineteen years. If you’re going to judge your progress against me then I’m afraid you’re not going to happy for a very long time.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes, and grumbled his reluctant agreement under his breath.  
  
“You can’t complain that someone with nineteen more years experience with you is better at something than you are,” Draco pressed on, an amused glint gleaming in his eyes. “I was so confident that I’d be the best flyer in our class in first year, then you came along and beat me - and on your first time flying, to make things worse!”  
  
“Yeah, compared to me you were a shit Seeker,” Harry grinned.  
  
Draco rolled his eyes and clapped his hands. “Pas de chat, Harry - go!”  
  
After their session had finished, Draco invited Harry to a nearby coffee shop for a drink. They had gone many times before, and that had been where Malfoy had become Draco.  
  
Spending time with Draco made Harry feel good about himself. Draco did cause  _stirrings_  inside Harry, but he didn’t seem to mind when he was with Draco. Being gay himself, Draco didn’t judge Harry for his sexuality - not that Harry had ever admitted to it - but there were times when he saw how happy and adjusted Draco was, and it gave Harry hope for himself.  
  
Of course, that hope faded whenever Harry went to see his friends and was met with comments from Ron about how “Robards paired me with one of the benders today, and I swear he was trying to grope me. They shouldn’t let queers into the Auror service.”  
  
Thinking of Ron made Harry feel down, so he plastered a fake smile onto his face and readily accepted Draco’s offer for a drink.  
  
They grabbed a seat in the corner; Harry ordered a mocha, while Draco got an Americano, and Harry stealthily set up their usual Privacy Charm.  
  
The day was warm, and a strong stream of sunlight shone through the window and danced on their table. Draco rolled his sleeves up in the warmth, and Harry’s eyes were instantly drawn to Draco’s tattoos.  
  
Harry suspected he had a weakness for tattoos. He never really saw any in the Wizarding world, and so he couldn’t help but look at Draco’s whenever they were on display.  
  
Draco looked relaxed and peaceful in the light of the sun, and Harry decided to take a chance on asking Draco the question he hadn’t dared to ask before.  
  
“What do they mean, your tattoos?” Harry asked, holding Draco’s gaze as he studied Harry intently. Harry had got better at keeping eye contact with Draco, and had accepted that it was alright to feel warm whenever he caught Draco staring back.  
  
“They’re narcissus flowers, for my mother,” Draco explained, running his fingers across his painted skin, tracing the design. “But flowers also represent beauty and life, which is why I have them obscuring the skull and the snake; they represent who I was, and the flowers represent that I’ve changed.”  
  
“And the dragon?” Harry’s mouth was dry and he licked his lips; Draco’s eyes followed the movement.  
  
“Dragons are strong, powerful, and a force to be reckoned with,” Draco answered, tilting his chin upwards and straightening his back. “I’m named for a dragon, and I wanted to keep that meaning close to my heart.”  
  
Draco had one more tattoo - the one Harry really wanted to know about.  
  
“You wear your Dark Mark proudly,” Harry said, and it wasn’t a question. Draco could have covered it up like he had with the snake and skull, or he could have worn long sleeves all the time, but instead he wore the Mark like a battle wound.  
  
“You’ve seen Deon’s tattoo, haven’t you? The star around his eye?” Draco asked, and Harry nodded. “Deon grew up in a rough neighbourhood, and when he was thirteen he joined a gang because that was what kids in the area did - the star was the gang’s sign. His gang was at war with a rival gang, and Deon’s life was basically made up of drugs, theft, and fighting. On the day he found out that his girlfriend was pregnant, his older brother was stabbed to death, and Deon knew he had to get out of there. He and his girlfriend scraped together all the money they could find and went as far away as they could, and made a new life for themselves away from the violence. Deon still wears his tattoo with pride, because it reminds him what he was and where he came from. He’s proud of overcoming the life that everyone else expected him to die in. And that’s why I don’t hide the Dark Mark - I made bad choices in my life, but those bad choices made me who I am today, and I’m not ashamed of that.”  
  
Draco’s voice was fierce, but Harry picked up on the anxious tone beneath it, as if he was afraid of Harry’s reaction.  
  
“You don’t have anything to be ashamed of,” Harry said quietly, and he looked away respectfully when he saw Draco’s eyes glistening.  
  
“Neither do you,” Draco murmured, his voice so sincere that it was impossible to tell that just moments before he had been bearing his heart.  
  
Harry knew what Draco was referring to, and, as per usual, he changed the subject. He wasn’t quite ready to confront that topic yet; it was easier to spend time with Draco and forget everything else.  
  
“You know, I think you’re the only living wizard I know who has tattoos,” Harry commented. “I mean, Sirius had some, but I think that was part rebellion against his parents, and part a prison thing.”  
  
“Tattoos are very taboo in the Wizarding world,” Draco said, gesturing towards his Dark Mark. “The Dark Lord made such a strong association with them during his first rising that most magical people view any design as something that’s dirty and shameful.”  
  
“I want one,” Harry muttered instinctively. It took a moment for him to comprehend his impulsive words, but even with consideration he hadn’t changed his mind. “I want a calla lily - for my mother, and for my relationship with death.”  
  
Draco raised a brow and looked at Harry quizzically, and Harry belatedly remembered that Draco had no idea about Harry’s experiences with the Deathly Hallows - which reminded him…  
  
“I want the sign of the Deathly Hallows as well, right where the Dark Mark would go,” Harry stated firmly, edging to the front of his seat, ready to go  _now_.  
  
“You know that was the sign of Gellert Grindelwald, don’t you?” Draco was still looking at Harry skeptically.  
  
“It belonged to the Peverell brothers first,” Harry pointed out.  
  
Draco shook his head and smiled.  
  
“If you’re really serious about this,” Draco said with a grin. “Then I know a  _great_  place where you can get them done.”  
  
***  
The sterile smell of the tattoo studio and the sound of the buzzing needle were two things Harry would always associate with this experience.  
  
The other thing he would associate with his first tattoo was the pain.  
  
It wasn’t as bad as say, the Cruciatus Curse performed by Voldemort himself, but it was easy to forget the pain of the Cruciatus when a needle was constantly stabbing his skin.  
  
Harry had decided to go for three tattoos. The first two were smaller, with one on each wrist - a calla lily, and a pair of antlers for his father. They had been a little bit painful on his bony wrists, but as they were smaller designs the pain was easier to bear.  
  
The sign of the Deathly Hallows, however, was larger and took longer in the same place.  
  
Despite Harry’s complaining, it wasn’t an unpleasant sort of pain; Harry could understand why people went back over and over to get more tattoos.  
  
“It’s an interesting symbol, this,” the tattooist had said when Harry had shown him the design.  
  
“It’s an old family design,” Harry had replied, and Draco’s eyes went so wide they were nearly comical.  
  
“I’m thinking of getting another one soon, Mikey,” Draco said to the tattooist while he worked on Harry. Draco had insisted on sitting in the room with them, claiming that he wanted to make sure that Harry didn’t chicken out. “I want wings on my back.”  
  
“Like an angel?” Mikey queried, which made Harry laugh.  
  
“Draco’s no angel,” he scoffed, grinning at the blond.  
  
Draco gave Harry the finger and turned his attention back to the tattooist. “Yes, but in black.”  
  
“We can sort that out - bring me in a design you’d like when you’re ready. You’re just about done now,” Mikey said to Harry, the buzzing of the needle stopping as he pulled away. “I just need to wrap you up and then you’re finished.”  
  
With his new tattoos wrapped in cling-film and an aftercare advice sheet in his pocket, Harry and Draco left the tattoo studio together.  
  
“Do you fancy going to a bar tonight?” Draco asked as they walked side-by-side through London’s streets. “I haven’t been out for ages, and I suppose you’re good enough company.”  
  
“Or you don’t have any other friends,” Harry said, and he almost stopped in his tracks. Did that mean that he and Draco were friends? They spent a lot of time together, they seemed to  _enjoy_  spending time together, and Harry’s touchy-feely feelings for Draco surely didn’t matter if they were friends.  
  
“I have Deon,” Draco protested firmly. “I’m going to Apparate home quickly to get you some healing salve I have that will clear your tattoos right up.”  
  
Draco did as he said he would, and re-appeared with a small glass jar in his hands. He passed it over to Harry and said, “put that on when you get home and you’ll be fine tonight. Forget that aftercare sheet he gave you; using this once every night for a few days is far better than anything the Muggles can suggest.”  
  
Harry thanked Draco and they bid each other goodbye, with plans to meet up later in the evening outside the ballet studio.  
  
By the time Harry had showered and chosen an outfit - he had ended up going for skinny jeans and a grey jumper that fell past his hips - it was time to meet Draco again.  
  
Draco had gone for slim fitting slacks that clung nicely to his arse, though Harry tried not to notice, and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.  
  
Draco looked Harry up and down appreciatively when he saw him, and Harry couldn’t help but squirm under the intense gaze.  
  
“You better get used to that where we’re going,” Draco said with a smirk, gesturing for Harry to follow him.  
  
“Are you taking me to a gay bar?” Harry asked, his eyes wide. He stopped dead in his tracks and Draco gave him a little shove.  
  
“I can’t stand disappointing all the women who flirt with me,” Draco stated, giving Harry a sly grin. “I thought you didn’t have a problem with gay people?”  
  
“I don’t,” Harry said quickly. It was just that being in a bar filled with men meant that Harry wouldn’t be able to help himself from looking; it was hard enough being around Draco. “Let’s go then.”  
  
The bar was tucked away in what looked like a converted factory. Two colourful rainbow flags swung over the doorway, and people with cigarettes gathered outside the door, blowing smoke into the air.  
  
The bouncer glanced Harry and Draco over and permitted them inside, and Harry had never seen anything like it.  
  
Men - and a handful of women - were laughing, drinking, and chatting, all while holding hands with their partner or flirting with someone, and nobody gave a damn. Nobody was shouting insults at them or giving them dirty looks - the people in the bar were free to do as they pleased without judgement.  
  
In that moment, Harry wondered if it was alright for him to be gay. If he knew that he could live like this - like he was a normal person and not a freak - then he would happily accept it.  
  
The problem was that while  _Harry_  knew that gay people weren’t freaks, his friends didn’t.  
  
Draco bought the first round of drinks, and Harry the second. By the time they had finished their fourth, Harry was eager and ready to go, tapping his feet to the thumping music.  
  
“Dance with me, Draco,” Harry begged, sliding off his chair and tugging on Draco’s sleeve. “I want to dance.”  
  
“I’ll go, but only because that old bear will sweep you up if you go on the dancefloor alone, and I owe you a favour,” Draco answered, jerking his head towards a hairy man who looked to be in his fifties and was leering at Harry.  
  
For maybe the first time in his life, Harry didn’t mind the thought of another man being attracted to him - even if it was an old guy.  
  
He and Draco squeezed into a space on the dancefloor, writhing against one another as the cramped space restricted any other type of dancing.  
  
It was the closest Harry had ever been physically with a man, and it felt wonderful. Draco was warm and his body was firm, and Harry’s body responded eagerly. It didn’t horrify Harry - he was too happy to let it bother him. Nobody was staring at them - it was just Harry and Draco.  
  
Harry thought that maybe he was ready to accept himself for who he was.  
  
At least he was until he ruined it by kissing Draco.  
  
***  
Sleep evaded Harry that night, his mind spinning in circles as it tried to understand what had happened in the bar.  
  
Kissing Draco had been… wonderful. Draco’s lips had been warm, firm, and responsive. Draco’s fingers had clung to Harry’s face to pull him closer while Harry wound his fingers in Draco’s soft hair. There had been electricity - an intense spark - and it was the best kiss Harry had ever had.  
  
The problem was, how was he ever meant to turn back now? Kissing Draco had proved to Harry that he was indeed gay, and trying to force himself to be straight would give him nothing but a lacklustre life filled with disappointment. Harry knew what he would be missing now.  
  
If Harry could spend his life in gay bars then he’d accept it. But the issue was, he  _couldn’t_  spend his life in gay bars. He had to go into the real world; the real world where his friends spat upon gay people - people like Harry.  
  
Harry could very easily have carried on kissing Draco, and could do for the rest of his life, but by doing so he’d be driving away the family he had created for himself, and then he’d be left with nobody.  
  
If Harry couldn’t be straight he’d have to force himself to be celibate - and to start doing that he’d have to stop temptations, meaning he’d have to stop hanging around Draco. The thought of not seeing Draco turned his stomach.  
  
Draco evidently had other ideas concerning Harry’s new plan, because in the early morning Harry heard a sound in the lock of his front door, and Draco came barging in.  
  
“Did you just pick my lock?” Harry demanded, momentarily forgetting that he had recently made a vow to avoid Draco. “Go away; I don’t want to see you right now.”  
  
“Why?” Draco hissed, stepping forwards towards Harry until Harry was forced against the wall. “For the same reason you ran away last night?”  
  
Draco was so close now, Harry could feel his breath on his cheek. If Harry leant forwards just a little bit he’d be able to capture Draco’s lips with his… with a hard shove Harry pushed Draco away.  
  
“Please, Draco, I can’t handle this at the moment,” Harry murmured, his voice sounding pathetically strained to his own ears.  
  
“Handle what?” Draco cried, bewildered. “ _You_  kissed me; not the other way round. Is this anything to do with the fact you still haven’t admitted aloud that you’re gay?”  
  
“I’m not-” Harry started, but he trailed off, knowing there was no point lying when they both knew the truth. “I  _can’t_  be gay, Draco.”  
  
“Why not?” Draco snarled. “Is there something  _wrong_  with being gay? Is there something wrong with  _me_?”  
  
“No, no!” Harry protested. “It’s not that, it’s just…,” Harry took a deep breath, knowing that he was about to admit things to Draco that he had never told anyone else. “My aunt and uncle hated me - they still do, in fact. They hate the idea of magic, and to them, witches and wizards are nothing but freaks. They didn’t love me because  _I_  was a freak. They constantly told me how little I meant to them; how I was a burden, and a good-for-nothing waste of space. If I hadn’t been a wizard - if I hadn’t been a freak - then they might have loved me.”  
  
Harry only realised his hands were shaking when Draco took hold of them. Harry curled his fingers around Draco’s hold and clung on tight.  
  
“I’ve moved on from them,” Harry pressed on, using Draco’s hold like a lifeline. “I found friends and people that love me for who I am - my  _true_  family, even if we’re not connected by blood. But they talk all the time about how gay people are freaks, and how disgusted they are by them, and if they find out that I’m gay then they won’t love me anymore. And I know that gay people aren’t freaks, just like I know that wizards aren’t freaks, but it isn’t my perceptions that matter - it’s theirs. I don’t want to drive them away because then I’ll be left with nobody.”  
  
“You’ll have me,” Draco said quietly, and his fingers gripped Harry’s hand so tightly it hurt. Harry didn’t struggle against the pain; he needed it. “I know where you’re at, Harry; I’ve been there myself. I may have had my parent’s love growing up, but I never had their approval - especially my father’s. No matter what I did, it was never good enough; my high grades didn’t matter because they weren’t the top of the class, being on the Quidditch team didn’t matter because I couldn’t win every single match. Part of the reason I was so cruel to you and your friends was because that was how my father treated people. I thought maybe if I was like him then he’d accept me and be proud of me. It didn’t work, though, because what I didn’t know is that my father hates himself.”  
  
It was Draco’s turn to take a deep breath, and he turned to Harry with a seriously stare.  
  
“I’m sure Arthur Weasley has  _bitterly_  told you all about how my father escaped Azkaban after the first war? Well, Weasley wasn’t the only one who was angry about that. A group of men trapped my father one night, and said that he had to face justice. He might have avoided Azkaban, they said, but they were going to make sure he couldn’t spread any more evil into the world, and they… they castrated him.”  
  
“Fuck,” Harry whispered involuntarily, clapping his hand over his mouth. Draco nodded, his mouth twisted grimly.  
  
“I won’t go into my father’s psyche since that event, but I think the reason he wanted me to be so perfect was because I was his only chance. When I turned seventeen, he was already planning a marriage for me so I could go on and continue the family name - the one thing I knew would finally make him proud of me. The problem was, I knew at that point that I was gay and had no interest in women. I tried to lie to myself, and convince myself that I could put up with being married to a woman, but I just ended up driving myself into a deep depression. Running away was the hardest thing I ever did, but it was also the best thing I’ve ever done.”  
  
“So you just turned your back on everyone? All your friends, and your mother?” Harry watched Draco carefully, ready to spot the first hint of sadness or regret on Draco’s face but there was none.  
  
“ _I_  matter more than they do… hurting myself so I could lie to them wasn’t good for any of us,” Draco said firmly. “I’m  _happy_  now. I have a job I love, and I’ve learnt to accept myself for who I am. If the people you love won’t accept you for who you are, then they don’t deserve to love you.”  
  
In that moment, Harry felt so very young compared to Draco. Draco had been where Harry was but he had got through it; he had turned his life into something good.  
  
“But who’s going to love me if they don’t?” Harry cried, and his breath hitched in his throat when Draco’s grey eyes landed on his.  
  
Draco pulled Harry closer so their bodies were almost pressed together; the only thing stopping them was their still joined hands. “I will,” Draco whispered, and as they were so close Harry could tell how Draco’s breath had picked up, and how his chest was rising and falling quickly with each breath.  
  
That time when Harry kissed Draco, Harry had no intention of running. He gave his all to Draco, and Draco gave his right back.  
  
Their hands held tight as their lips moved against each other’s, and Harry knew then that he could never let Draco go.  
  
***  
Harry’s newest method for self-acceptance was to avoid Hermione and the Weasleys like the plague.  
  
It was one thing to accept himself by  _allowing_  himself to be happy with Draco, but coming out was something else entirely.  
  
Draco had left home in the middle of the night, leaving behind nothing but a crudely detailed letter. Harry, however, still didn’t want to lose his friends. Running away and leaving a goodbye letter was a definite way to ruin things, so he knew the best he would be able to do was come clean and hope for the best.  
  
He wasn’t ready to do it just yet, admittedly. He wanted to give himself a bit of time first, to maybe try and judge exactly how the Weasleys would take the news; thus the avoidance - Harry had a tendency to procrastinate.  
  
After missing the first Sunday Roast at the Burrow for years, Harry received numerous worried Floo calls and so had promised to be there for the next one. Harry was slightly regretting the promise now, because he had managed to convince himself that everyone would take one look at him and know that he’d spent the last night curled up with Draco.  
  
“Hey, mate!” Ron greeted enthusiastically, clapping him on the shoulder. “Merlin, is that…? You got a tattoo, Harry?”  
  
Ron’s attention had been drawn to the Deathly Hallows tattoo; Harry held up his wrists to show him the other two.  
  
“Three,” Harry corrected.  
  
“Blimey; never expected you to do anything like that,” Ron exclaimed, his eyes not leaving Harry’s arm. They walked into the kitchen, where Ron announced to everyone, “look! Harry’s got tattoos!”  
  
“Wicked,” George grinned, while Bill nodded in agreement.  
  
“Oh, Harry; you’ll be marked for life,” Hermione said with a sigh. “Did you check the place out before you got them? Did it seem clean?”  
  
“Everyone’s going to be getting one now,” Ginny joked, and Harry groaned at the thought of being the reason behind a tattoo rebellion in the Wizarding world.  
  
Mrs Weasley looked disapproving but smiled at him sweetly when he cast her a worried look.  
  
There was a woman sat beside Mrs Weasley, who had shoulder length brown hair, glasses, and was dressed in a modest, pale blue blouse.  
  
Mrs Weasley caught him studying the stranger, and her smile widened.  
  
“Harry, this is Mavis,” Mrs Weasley said, and Mavis smiled in greeting. “She’s the daughter of one of my friends from the knitting club. Here, I saved you a seat next to her.”  
  
Harry couldn’t bring himself to smile back, and he trudged his feet over to the chair that Mrs Weasley had left.  
  
Mavis was pretty enough, and Harry was sure that she was a lovely girl, but the fact remained that she wasn’t male, and worse; she wasn’t Draco.  
  
Conversation flowed easily around the rest of the table, but Harry and Mavis sat side-by-side in awkward silence.  
  
“So do you do much knitting?” Harry asked when the awkwardness became too much, because even if he didn’t want to date the woman he could still be polite.  
  
“No; it’s my mother’s hobby,” Mavis answered, and Harry was pleased to note the bitterness in her voice; maybe Mavis, too, had been forced into this situation.  
  
“Oh,” Harry said. He had no idea what else to say, but luckily talking about her mother had opened Mavis up.  
  
“She’s desperate for me to start, of course,” Mavis complained, lowering her voice so only Harry could hear her. “She’s such a control freak;  _she_  made me wear this hideous blouse because she’s afraid of what might happen if  _I_  get to pick my own clothes. Apparently flannel shirts are too obvious; I mean, I do dress like the stereotype mainly to annoy her, but Morgana forbid anyone should find out I’m gay.”  
  
“What?” Harry hissed under his breath. “You’re-?”  
  
“Yeah; sorry if you had any expectations from me.” Mavis shrugged, and gave him an apologetic sort of smile.  
  
“Don’t worry; you didn’t,” Harry said, quickly adding, “not that you’re not pretty or anything. It’s just that I’m… I’m kind of seeing someone else.”  
  
Mavis waved her hand to show it was alright.  
  
“So your mother still lets you live with her, even after you’ve come out?” Harry asked, his heart pounding in his chest. Maybe there was hope after all.  
  
“Yeah, I mean, she isn’t happy about it; that’s why she forces me on dates with young male acquaintances of her friends,” Mavis answered, jerking her head subtly towards Mrs Weasley. “But she’s stopped crying every time I make a gay reference, so that’s a bonus.”  
  
The ‘date’ between Harry and Mavis hadn’t gone as Mrs Weasley planned, but Harry was actually glad that Mrs Weasley had tried to set them up. Talking to Mavis had reassured Harry that even if there were struggles and negativity, not everything would be a loss. Besides, no matter what happened he would always have Draco.  
  
***  
Harry didn’t think he’d ever be able to get over how beautiful Draco looked when he was dancing.  
  
When Draco did ballet, he looked graceful, powerful, and lost in the movements. Draco looked  _happy_ , like the only thing that mattered was the dance.  
  
The people in the audience were just as in awe of Draco as Harry was, but Harry felt like he knew Draco’s movements better than they ever could. Harry had seen Draco rehearsing, and seen the effort he put into making his dance perfect. Harry had seen Draco stretched out beside him, had ran his hands over Draco’s slender muscles - the same muscles moved so effortlessly on the stage.  
  
Harry felt like he was privy to the secret meaning behind the dance; one that only he and Draco knew. It was an exhilarating feeling, which was perhaps why, after the show, Harry found himself kissing Draco desperately in his dressing room.  
  
Draco’s hands trembled slightly as they clung tightly onto Harry. Harry knew in that moment that he wanted every part of Draco, and Draco seemed to know that, too.  
  
“Let’s head home,” Draco murmured against Harry’s lips.  
  
In the month and a half that they had been together, they had slept in the same bed and partaken in oral sex, but they had yet to sleep with each other.  
  
It had been Harry’s choice to wait, which Draco had respected. It was one thing to finally accept that he was gay, but the thought of actually having sex with another man made Harry nervous. Fighting trolls, Acromantula, and Dementors, was nothing compared to giving himself completely to another person.  
  
They Apparated to Draco’s flat, directly to the bedroom.  
  
Draco’s hands were warm on Harry’s body as his deft fingers worked Harry’s shirt over his head. Draco let out a small moan of pleasure as Harry tugged Draco’s ballet leggings down his thighs, rubbing his fingers against his soft skin in the process.  
  
“How does this work?” Harry murmured when they were both clad only in their underwear. Harry could admit to himself that he was procrastinating while his heart pounded loudly in his chest with each passing moment. “Do you do the fucking, or do I? Nobody told me how it works.”  
  
Harry knew how two men had sex, of course, but he didn’t know the dynamics. He had heard comments like “who’s the woman?” or “who’s the man?” when referring to same-sex couples, but that didn’t seem right. He and Draco were  _both_  men - but how did that come across in sex? Porn made it look like one man topped and the other bottomed, but Harry didn’t know if he wanted to limit himself like that.  
  
“We can both do it,” Draco said with a small smile. He couldn’t hold Harry’s gaze, and Harry realised that Draco was almost as nervous as him; Harry wasn’t sure if that was just because he didn’t know if Harry would be any good or not. “We don’t need to limit ourselves; fucking someone is amazing, but being fucked feels great, too. For tonight… being fucked isn’t as good if the top doesn’t know what they’re doing.  _I_  know what I’m doing, and I can show you what it feels like so you know how to make it feel good for me next time, if you want?”  
  
Harry nodded quickly. Despite his nerves, he knew that he wanted this, and putting on his most confident voice he said, “I want to feel you inside me, Draco.”  
  
Draco smiled, and pressed his lips to Harry’s.  
  
“You’re not a thinker, Harry; you’re a doer,” Draco mumbled, pushing Harry towards the bed. “Stop overthinking this and let things happen; your body knows what it wants and what to do.”  
  
Harry nodded and sunk onto the bed, pulling Draco down with him. Draco rolled to the side of Harry, propped up on his hip. Draco’s arm reached over so his fingers could stroke Harry’s thighs, and Harry arched up into the teasing touch.  
  
Every inch of his body was hot, like he was burning in a fire without the pain, and only Draco could soothe the flames. It was desire like nothing Harry had known before, and when their fully nude bodies were finally pressed together, Harry felt like he was in heaven.  
  
All the nervous thoughts and anxieties left his head, his focus entirely on wanting Draco.  
  
He couldn’t help but squirm when Draco pressed a lubricated finger to his hole, but Draco kissed him gently to relax him.  
  
“Don’t tense up,” Draco murmured. He was so gentle, unlike any other time Harry had seen him. No matter what Draco did - whether it was working or dancing - Draco exuded power and confidence, and he kept control. Now Draco was soft and encouraging, and his voice trembled as he spoke. It was the inner Draco that was coming out, unlocked by Harry.  
  
Sex didn’t have to be about fucking and orgasms, Harry was starting to realise; it could be a way to be at one with your lover. It was the difference between making love and fucking, Harry supposed.  
  
“You’re thinking again,” Draco scolded gently, pressing his finger inside Harry at last and bringing Harry back to the now. “Think about what I’m doing to you, instead. I’m going to get you wet, Harry; so wet that I’ll be able to slide inside you so easily. I’m going to make you feel so good. Do you want more?”  
  
Harry nodded eagerly, and Draco pressed another finger inside of Harry. It burned slightly, but Harry took a deep breath and concentrated on the soothing scent of Draco’s coconut fragrance. They could be on a beach, Harry imagined, rolling in the sand by the shores of the sea.  
  
Then Draco’s fingers hit  _that_  spot inside of Harry, and he arched his back as a moan fell from his lips.  
  
“Fuck, Harry,” Draco uttered, pulling his fingers from Harry’s hole which left him feeling uncomfortably empty. “Are you ready for me, Harry?”  
  
“So ready,” Harry hissed, the ability to speak full sentences seemingly lost to him for the moment.  
  
Draco pushed himself up and shifted so that he was on top of Harry, and Harry spread his legs and wrapped them around Draco’s body, allowing Draco to fall in-between his thighs.  
  
Draco spread some lubricant over his erection - so much that the clear liquid dripped down onto the sheets - and pressed himself against Harry’s entrance.  
  
It hurt as Draco pushed inside, but the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure. Draco was  _inside_  him, filling him and moaning for him. No failed attempts at sleeping with women, or porn-based fantasies, could compare to the real thing.  
  
When Draco hit his prostate, Harry saw stars; indeed, as Draco continued to hit that spot, Harry could have been floating in space for all he knew.  
  
Harry came first with a cry of Draco’s name, and Draco finished soon after, releasing inside Harry before collapsing bonelessly on his chest.  
  
Harry placed a kiss to the top of Draco’s head, and clung onto him tightly. Their chests heaved up and down heavily as they caught their breath, and Harry could feel Draco’s heart beat as it pounded heavily.  
  
Now Harry had reached the stars, he didn’t ever want to come back down.  
  
***  
If Harry had a choice between walking into the Forbidden Forest to meet his death, or sitting Ron and Hermione down so that he could come out to them, Harry would chose the forest every time.  
  
At least with Voldemort, Harry had known what he was getting into. He didn’t have to worry about what Voldemort would say, or if he’d reject him. Facing Voldemort had been simple.  
  
Coming out to Ron and Hermione, on the other hand, was like entering the unknown. Would they call him a freak and cast him out of their lives? Would they be disgusted and refuse to look at him? Would they try and convince him that it wasn’t too late for him to try with Ginny again, if they got rid of Dean?  
  
Although Harry didn’t want to know their reaction, he  _had_  to know. He had become so much happier since accepting who he was, but there was still the lingering fear of his friend’s reactions; that fear was the thing driving him insane. At least if Ron and Hermione rejected his friendship, he wouldn’t have to wonder whether they would or not anymore.  
  
The longer Ron and Hermione took to arrive, the more appealing sending a note to cancel seemed. But finally they arrived, and Harry couldn’t cancel it anymore. He could lie, of course, but he knew that he’d have to face this conversation eventually, and there was no point putting it off any longer.  
  
“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione asked. Her eyes were creased with concern, and Harry wondered if she’d ever worry about him again once she knew the truth.  
  
“Yeah, your note sounded pretty serious,” Ron added, frowning.  
  
“Sit down,” Harry said, gesturing with his hand and realising it was shaking. He quickly pulled it back to his chest, but Hermione - being Hermione - noticed it.  
  
“What’s wrong, Harry?” Hermione quizzed, running to Harry and placing her hand on his forehead. “Are you sick?”  
  
“Maybe to some people,” Harry said dryly. He laughed humorlessly, until he remembered that Ron and Hermione weren’t in on the in-joke yet. “Sit down - I have something I need to tell you.”  
  
Ron and Hermione complied, sharing a worried glance with one another. Harry turned his attention to Ron, figuring that Ron was the one he was most worried about; Ron was outspoken, while Hermione kept her thoughts to herself.  
  
“You know those gay Aurors in your department, Ron?” Harry started, and Ron nodded. “I don’t like how you talk about them; it’s offensive and cruel, and reminds me of how the Death Eaters talked about Muggles.”  
  
Ron blanched. “Blimey, Harry; I don’t… Harry, I don’t wish gay people dead or anything; you know I’m not like that. It’s just Auror culture, you know? Gays, women, fat blokes - they all get stick.”  
  
“But you really have it in for that gay couple,” Harry pointed out, deciding that if he kept talking it might ease his nausea. He could almost see the clockwork whirring in Hermione’s brain, and wondered if she would storm out before Harry even had a chance to say it out loud. “The things you say are really hurtful.”  
  
“I never say it to their face, Harry; I’m not a bully,” Ron argued, folding his arms across his chest. “Has Bill had words with you? He gets funny with me about this sort of thing.”  
  
“No, Bill’s said nothing,” Harry said, but the thought of Bill being displeased with Ron gave Harry a glimmer of hope. “And just because you don’t say things to the couple’s face doesn’t mean there isn’t any other gay people around to hear what you say about them.”  
  
There - the words were out. Not quite directly coming out, but as the words sunk in Ron and Hermione might start to get the direction Harry’s speech was going in.  
  
Hermione got the message first, as expected, and her face fell. She looked  _sad_ , and as she opened her mouth to speak, Harry cut her off because he couldn’t bear to hear what she had to say.  
  
“I’m gay,” he blurted out, and Ron’s mouth fell open in shock. “And I’ll understand if you hate me now, but if you do can you just leave now and I’ll get the message.”  
  
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione whispered, clutching her hands over her chest.  
  
“You’re having us on, aren’t you, mate?” Ron tried hopefully. His voice was strangled, and when Harry didn’t respond he buried his head in his hands. “Merlin, Harry.”  
  
“You see!” Hermione hissed, shoving Ron’s shoulder. “I told you that your big mouth was going to get you into trouble one day. Those Auror lads are pieces of work, I tell you!” Hermione turned to Harry, and reached across the table to take his hands in hers. “Harry, in the Muggle world I was prosecuted for my skin being black, and in the Wizarding world I was prosecuted for my blood being  _dirty_. If you think I’m going to turn into one of those prosecutors because of your sexuality, then you don’t know me very well. Ron?”  
  
“Harry,” Ron said seriously - more serious than Harry had ever known Ron to be. “When I came back after running away while he were hunting the Horcruxes, I swore I’d never turn my back on you again; I promised myself that.”  
  
“And now you’re breaking that promise,” Harry finished bitterly. “I understand.” He refused to meet Ron’s eyes, so he was surprised when Ron reached over to him and pulled him into a firm hug.  
  
“No, you idiot,” Ron murmured gently. “After everything we’ve been through together… Look, Harry; I won’t lie to you - the whole  _gay_  thing kind of grosses me out. All my life I’ve been told that being gay is one of the worst things a witch or wizard can be; that it’s selfish because it’s denying future children a life. But you’re important to me, Harry - you’re my best mate - and just because I can’t accept homosexuality doesn’t mean I won’t accept  _you_. Maybe you can teach me how to accept being gay, too. You know, I’m pretty sure that Charlie either wants to date men, or doesn’t want to date anyone; either way, he doesn’t want to date women and that’s why he’s in Romania and hardly sees the family. I don’t want to drive you away like that, Harry. I want to show you something to prove that I mean this.”  
  
Ron pulled back from Harry and shrugged his jacket off, revealing a tattoo of a lightning bolt on his inner elbow.  
  
Ron’s eyes were wet, and Harry felt tears pricking at his own. Ron and Hermione accepted him. And maybe things with Ron weren’t perfect, but Ron had admitted that he was flawed, and more importantly, he had said he would stand by Harry regardless.  
  
“I’m glad you told us, Harry,” Hermione said, wiping furiously at her own damp eyes. “I know it couldn’t have been easy for you.”  
  
“Could you keep it to yourselves for now?” Harry mumbled, his throat dry. “I don’t know how the others…”  
  
“Mum and Dad will struggle,” Ron admitted with a heavy shrug. “They love you, but they’ll struggle.”  
  
“I know,” Harry sighed. “It’s alright.”  
  
It wasn’t alright, not really, but Harry had Hermione and Ron no matter what. They, along with Draco, made everything alright.  
  
_One Year Later_  
  
“Did you get it all?” Harry asked Deon, not taking his eyes off Draco.  
  
Draco had been requested for an alternate music video for a Muggle singer, performing ballet in the ruins of Whitby Abbey. Draco had choreographed the ballet moves himself, and was rehearsing with the assistance of Harry and Deon until his actual recording at the weekend.  
  
“Perfect,” Deon grinned, shooting Draco a thumbs up. “Are we done for now? Toni wants to go to that Dracula museum.”  
  
“You go ahead,” Draco said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Deon handed the camera over to Harry and cheerfully whistled a tune as he went on his way. “Thoughts, Harry?”  
  
“Elegant, as always,” Harry smiled. Harry could never tire of watching Draco dance; he was truly in his element when he dancing.  
  
“I ripped my leggings,” Draco groaned, casting his gaze towards the tear in the pale fabric.  
  
“I like it,” Harry grinned. “It fits the feel of the abbey, but also I just really like getting to see more of you.”  
  
Draco smirked, crossing over to Harry and leaning in until their lips were only inches apart.  
  
“Why do you think I suggested you took over from Imogen’s yoga classes when she left? Seeing  _more_  is definitely not a bad thing, especially when you’re bent over in  _Halasana_.” Draco’s breath ghosted over Harry’s lips, and Harry couldn’t take it anymore so he closed the distance between them, kissing Draco softly.  
  
A man in the distance cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Harry flipped him the finger.  
  
Harry had come a long way in the past year. He had learnt how to accept himself, but more importantly, he had learnt how to accept that not everyone was going to support him.  
  
It had been hard, the negative reactions from some of his friends, but those that mattered the most had stuck by him. Ron had been making massive attempts to learn how to support Harry better; he had even started attending Harry’s yoga classes on occasion.  
  
But even after the hard days, when Harry would return from the Burrow after being confronted with a tearful and conflicted Mrs Weasley, or a mean-under-the-pretence-of-joking George, Harry would still have Draco.  
  
Their life was relatively simple. They danced together in the morning, then Draco would go to the ballet academy while Harry went to Muggle college for fitness instructing lessons. They would dance together again in the evenings, and spend their nights relaxing and enjoying each other’s company. They were happy, and very much in love, and Draco being another man didn’t make their relationship any lesser, no matter what some people said.  
  
But those people didn’t matter.  _Harry_  mattered. 

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